


give and go

by twoif



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M, Post-Canon, shockingly Implied Pining is not actually a real tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:18:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoif/pseuds/twoif
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five conversations with Midorima, after the breakup.</p><blockquote>
  <p>Finally, Midorima folds his fingers on the table in front of him, staring through them at something neither he nor Kise can see. "Awhile ago, I thought I shared a connection with someone. But it turned out that they didn't feel the same way I did. It ended before I embarrassed myself. But now I wonder if it was just that I was awkward with—with my emotions."</p>
  <p>Kise waits. When Midorima says nothing else, Kise prompts, "That's it?"</p>
  <p>"What else were you expecting?"</p>
  <p>Letting out a deep breath, Kise collapses on the table and slams his tea glass as if it were a pint of beer. "I don't know," he grouches, "something that doesn't sound like a Natsume Soseki novel? Your story is so dull I can't even get drunk to it." He considers it carefully, then adds, "But at least it makes me feel better about myself." </p>
  <p>"Fuck you, Kise," Midorima snaps.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	give and go

They break up on the same day the Shuutoku basketball team loses in the finals of the Winter Cup and Takao cries for the first time in front of his team. "I'm breaking up with you, Shin-chan," Takao says afterwards, grinning as he presses a cold water bottle to his still-swollen face. "It's been real. You were the best tsundere megane boyfriend anyone could ask for. I'll treasure these memories forever."

"Don't talk shit," Midorima says, not even bothering to look up from where he is taping his fingers. 

"You're right. Since we weren't dating, I won't make fun of my pure feelings," Takao jokes, and dodges the tape roll Midorima sends towards his head. "But in all seriousness, we'll barely see each other starting now. No more games, no more practice. You'll have to find someone else to bike you around after school. Not that it'll matter, since you'll be too busy studying for exams."

"You're sitting for university exams as well."

"Yeah, but you're aiming for Todai Medical. It's hardly the same. You can call me, you know, if you get bored. We'll sneak out for trips to the convenience store after hours, like normal high schoolers. It'll be educational for you."

Midorima makes a noise, half snort and half hum. His hands are folded in his lap. The left hand is not completely taped, and Takao goes to fetch the rest of the roll, tosses it at Midorima's shoulder. Instead of catching it, Midorima lets it hit him, then bounce away. Takao frowns. Distantly he thinks, something feels off, like he's intruding on a conversation Midorima and some other Takao were having. 

"Shin-chan? You're not mad we lost, are you? You can cry if you want. I'll hold you for old time's sake." 

This time, Midorima does look up. His face is dry and inscrutable, and Takao marvels at how, three years of close observation later, Midorima still has expressions he doesn't understand. Midorima hadn't cried earlier, not that Takao had expected him to, but after the second-years were done making fun of Takao, Midorima had given him a clean towel and a bottle of water and managed not to bring up the fact that Takao had sworn a year ago he'd never be that third year crying for the end of his high school career. Which is proof, Takao submits, that even Shin-chan can learn to be human. 

"I'm not mad we lost," Midorima says, voice tight. There's a pause, and Takao waits for Midorima to keep talking. But Midorima swallows, once, twice. Says nothing. Then, he grabs his bag and leaves without waiting for Takao.

Even without basketball, they still see each other occasionally. Takao hasn't been in Midorima's class since freshman year, but their classes take physical education together, and there's always lunch. Still, Takao can feel their lives retreat slowly into separate corners. Mostly it's the little things he misses: going with Midorima to the arcade to find a lucky item, rock-paper-scissors for who would have to stay behind to babysit the first-years, waving at Midorima's sister from the _genkan_ as he waits for Midorima to put on his shoes. One weekend he stops by Midorima's house on a whim. "Shintarou's out, I'm afraid. Should I tell him you stopped by?" his mother asks, and Takao says no, he'll text Shin-chan to tell him, but then he forgets, waylaid by Miyaji Yuuya, who attends the same university as his older brother and Kasamatsu and was just at this moment introducing a tutor to Seirin's Kuroko. 

"What's Kagami doing?" Takao asks over coffee and an array of prep books.

"America," Kuroko says, succinct as always, and that's that. 

Shuutoku's is a vigorous academic program, but Takao knows that even before his third year, Midorima was going to college-level classes and doing a full slate of exam prep on the weekends. Takao thinks maybe he'll do school in Tokyo too, maybe the same one as Yuuya, or maybe even Tokyo Metropolitan. His grades aren't bad. Still, when Yuuya suggests it, he takes up Kuroko's offer to do joint private tutoring sessions, and ends up trading in time with one ex-Teikou player for time with another.

In March, the Shuutoku basketball club holds its special graduation ceremony for the third-years, which Takao has emceed for the last two years. This year, he watches some nervous freshman in bad drag try to make jokes and stands next to a motionless MIdorima, who mouths along with the school song without actually singing. When the team disperses after the final group shot, Takao grabs Midorima by the arm and pulls him back towards the center of the gym. "One last one-on-one?" Takao asks, picking up a ball. 

"I'll crush you," Midorima replies and, shoulders hunched, dives for Takao's hands.

In indoor shoes and a gakuran, a one-on-one is not much fun. Eventually, it becomes a shootout, the two of them alternating shots, moving further and further back. At the free throw line, Takao says, "I heard you got in. Congratulations." 

"From whom?"

"Kuroko. He said Akashi told him. Don't you guys talk? You're friends."

"No," Midorima says. Another shot, in between the three-point and the free throw lines, then abruptly, "Are you going to keep playing in university?"

"Haven't decided yet," Takao admits. He makes his own shot and pumps his fist when it goes in because he knows it'll make Midorima frown. "Maybe I'll join STRKY, though it's STRKS now. Izuki, that PG who used to play for Seirin, wants me to take over for him. It'll be nice. Miyaji's younger brother is on the team, you know. What about you?"

"No."

"Why not? I thought Shin-chan loved basketball."

Having reached a foot away from the apex of the three-point line, Takao is out of his depth. He misses his next two shots and decides to run up to the net and rebound Midorima's shots instead. He passes the ball back to Midorima with his eyes closed and grins when he hears it slap against Midorima's palm, a sound he's heard a million times before, each of Midorima's fingers a perfect weight. 

Midorima sizes up his shot. "It wouldn't be the same if I was to play without the people I met here."

"I knew Shin-chan would have a romantic side," Takao jokes, and rushes in for the block.

Takao loses, of course. After he gets the rebound, he throws the ball back to Midorima and sprawls out on the floor of the court. The laminated wood is cold against his damp back, and Midorima towers over him, silhouetted and dark. "This is really it, huh," he tells the shadow of Midorima's face. "I know I already said it before, after the Winter Cup, but it's been real. It wouldn't have been three years without you."

"Years are a unit of time. They would have passed for us whether or not I met you," Midorima says. 

"Inflexible as ever," Takao huffs. 

"It's the truth."

He closes his eyes, opens them again to find that Midorima has crouched down by his shoulder. The gym is silent around them, except for the buzz of the overhead lights. _We are having a moment_ , Takao thinks, delighted. Like the way they started, this is how they will end—in a quiet moment, just the two of them, recognizing the delicate Gordian knot of coincidence that's brought them together. He tries to take in every detail, to repeat it later for Midorima, at a ten-year reunion maybe, when they've both forgotten what it felt like to be Shuutoku's light and shadow. 

"If I asked you to—or told you—" Midorima begins, but then shakes his head. "No, never mind."

"What is it?"

"It doesn't matter now." 

They stay like that for a long while, not saying anything else. Eventually, Midorima starts shredding the tape from his slender fingers, not unwrapping them carefully as he might have before a game, but taking his nails to each layer, tearing them away. Hands bare, he straightens his legs and picks up the basketball, raising it high over his head to make a shot. The ball arcs like a ceiling in a dream, untethered by gravity. It's impossible that it could ever make it. But it'll go in, Takao knows. He doesn't need to watch it to know. 

So instead, he watches Midorima's back as he walks away. 

 

-

 

When Kise has his first real fight with Kuroko, no one is there to take Kise's side. Kagami had taken off for America a few months after graduation, ready for his NCAA debut, and with all the good grace of a starving panther offered rotten meat, Aomine had slunk off after him. Without Aomine, Momoi's time has freed up, and she responds to Kise's hysterical texts with apologetic emoticons, explaining that she's at a group date. Conversation with Murasakibara, especially about interpersonal relationships, has always been the equivalent of talking at a particularly dumb ten-year-old. Akashi, never an option anyway, had chosen a university outside of Tokyo. And, most importantly, Kasamatsu's company had taken him on a work trip to Kanazawa two days before, and he'd given Kise strict orders to text only if Kise was dying and couldn't get a hold of Moriyama first. 

Anyway, Kise knows Kasamatsu's advice by heart now. He's given it to Kise for over three years, and Kise hasn't listened: _Stop smothering him. You're still treating him like you did in middle school. You're annoying him. You're annoying_ me _. Sometimes friends just need some space._ The last time it had come up, after Kuroko hadn't gone to his first meet-and-greet, Kise had texted Kasamatsu, _space is such a convenient word for when you mean 'goodbye'_ , and Kasamatsu had called him to bitch at him about talking too much like a cell phone novel. Which, fine, Kise had been dramatic. But he'd started his friendship with Kuroko dramatically—a basketball meet-cute, a mutual friend and unattainable object of admiration, a few short months of bliss, a painful farewell, reunion in high school, two games that ended in tears, and both of them taking their turn being the one in the stands shouting out words of encouragement for all of Tokyo to hear. He'd spent so long interacting with Kuroko as if his life depended on it. Sometimes, for the sake of his pride, it truly had felt like it did.

In the end, it's Midorima who agrees to hear Kise out. _If you're really going to die, could you do it somewhere far away and without bothering us about it,_ he texts back initially, but meets Kise at a nearby yakiniku place anyway. "You get five minutes," he tells Kise, sliding into the opposite seat and picking up the menu, and when Kise reminds him that he's picking up the tab, Midorima furrows his brow and clicks his tongue. "Ten minutes, then."

"Always such a pleasure conducting business with you," Kise grumbles. 

"Nine minutes and 55 seconds," Midorima reminds him, flipping a page.

Like most things with Midorima, the prickly exterior is not quite a lie, but not the whole truth. They waste the first ten minutes contemplating the menu, then ordering, then trading awkward, throat-clearing silences while Midorima fastidiously lines up the various glasses, condiments, and plates on his side. Midorima's fingers are bare of tape, which to Kise makes him seem more naked than if he had actually taken off his clothes. Kise knows Midorima hasn't played on a basketball team since high school, not even on a streetball team like Kuroko. No reason now to preserve God's gift to three-pointers. If Midorima's fingers still seem particularly thin and well-kept now, it's probably just Kise projecting, remembering how Midorima used to scoff at Aomine's nail-biting and fuss over Akashi's paper cuts, obsessing over these minor millimeters in difference. 

Projecting, Kise explains to Midorima when the food finally arrives, is what had gotten him into trouble with Kuroko in the first place. It'd been months of dancing around their separate schedules, Kise's filming and photoshoots and Kuroko's exams, culminating in a testy lunch where Kuroko suggested they no longer had that much in common and Kise claimed that Kuroko was purposefully shutting him out. _You're taking your frustrations of not being with Kagami-kun and Aomine-kun out on me_ , Kuroko had said, frowning. _But you were the one who chose this after graduation. We all chose our separate paths and made peace with it. You should too._ But that wasn't it at all, Kise had thought, it wasn't like Kuroko _represented_ basketball to him, he'd wanted to see Kuroko even when he had been going to high school in Kanagawa and was up to his gills in basketball. Anyway, it hadn't been an exclusive choice; it wasn't like Kise had given up basketball to become a full-time entertainer. He almost ruined his knee in his second year of high school, sure, but he'd always have enough in him to play a bout of one-on-one with Aomine, which would be enough basketball for anyone in a lifetime. 

Except none of that had come out of his mouth when he had been with Kuroko. Instead what he'd said was, _Aren't you the one taking your frustrations of not being able to follow their basketball out on me?_ And that's where their conversation had ended, with Kise saying something he hadn't meant, in the worst possible way, and Kuroko shutting down like a cold snap. They'd spent the rest of that lunch in reproachful silence, Kuroko pointedly reading a book when Kise was approached by some high school girls who recognized him from last week's bit role in a drama. And when Kise, too contrite to actually apologize, had asked Kuroko to go shoe shopping with him after, Kuroko had refused so politely it was like Kise was a stranger who'd asked Kuroko to share his table. He'd left without acknowledging Kise's desperate pleading, not even a hint of the well-worn exasperation on his face that, to Kise, was the equivalent of a friendly pat on the back. 

Now, Kise complains into a tall glass of oolong tea, "He acts like I only want to hang out with him if no one else is around. What's wrong with wanting to see more of your friends? If I'm too clingy for him, why doesn't he just say it?" Midorima fixes him a look from across the table, too polite to talk with his mouth full. "You're going to say something mean, I just know it," Kise grouses. "I still have a few minutes left, you know."

"Kuroko has been telling you you're too clingy since the day he met you," Midorima says, meticulously dismantling a chicken wing. "He's far too intelligent to believe that it'll work now when it hasn't worked for the last few years."

"It's how I show my love," Kise says, snagging a piece of grilled beef. 

"I'll tell him to file a restraining order the next time I see him, then," Midorima says, and his face is blank enough that Kise can believe he means it as serious advice and not a joke. 

Midorima, Kise knows, has never been the warmest of people, but even though he'd rather die than admit it, he's always been a good listener. Probably practice from middle school, where he'd spent his formative years listening to Akashi's arcane blather. In Kise's memory, he sees Akashi and Midorima, after what Kise now terms Akashi's Great Crack-Up, in the locker rooms or their classroom or the cafeteria, set apart from the rest of the team, Akashi droning on about shogi defenses or military tactics in feudal Japan while Midorima listened, eyes half-closed. 

Kise's make-up artist once told him in hushed tones all about her experience going to see a therapist. _It was like sitting in front of a jizo brought to life_ , she confessed. _Totally nondescript. Like nothing you said could shock them_. That isn't true of Midorima—lots of things shock him, and Kise had shocked him plenty in middle school and even in their high school years, just by not washing his socks enough or recounting breast sizes of various girlfriends. But for Kise, Midorima has always had a similar quality, because nothing Kise could say to him would ever change his opinion of Kise. There were no landmines for Kise to step in, like there was with Kuroko, who Kise had treated for years like a buffer zone between himself and the rest of the generation of miracles. That Kise can admit, at least to himself. 

"Sometimes," Kise says, and then hesitates. Midorima looks at him from across the table, not encouraging, not discouraging, merely there the way furniture might be. Kise takes another drink of tea and takes off his glasses, the thick framed ones he wears for disguise, and when he looks back up at Midorima, it feels like four years ago, like they're back in the okonomiyaki restaurant, like they're high school freshmen again and they're just waiting for each other to come clean, the ghost of Kuroko beside them. "Sometimes, I think what if—you know, what if I turn out to be the only one still holding onto something everyone else has moved on from? I'm happy now, I'm doing well, I've matured a lot since middle school"—here Midorima snorts, but doesn't interrupt—"but I was happy then, too, when I first met Aominecchi and Kurokocchi. And even you. I don't want to think that time was just a lie." 

"I understand."

"Really?" Kise says, doubtful. 

"You think you're so unique? It happens to other people too."

"Other people, but to you?" Kise scoffs. "Yeah, right." 

There's a pause while Midorima goes back to arranging things on the table—his chopsticks, their empty glasses, even the pieces of garlic on the grill. When he runs out of distractions, Midorima breathes in deep, opens his mouth, adjusts his glasses. Finally, he folds his fingers on the table in front of him, staring through them at something neither he nor Kise can see. "Awhile ago, I thought I shared a connection with someone. But it turned out that they didn't feel the same way I did. It ended before I embarrassed myself. But now I wonder if it was just that I was awkward with—with my emotions."

Kise waits. When Midorima says nothing else, Kise prompts, "That's it?"

"What else were you expecting?"

Letting out a deep breath, Kise collapses on the table and slams his tea glass as if it were a pint of beer. "I don't know," he grouches, "something that doesn't sound like a Natsume Soseki novel? Your story is so dull I can't even get drunk to it." He considers it carefully, then adds, "But at least it makes me feel better about myself." 

"Fuck you, Kise," Midorima snaps.

From behind his empty glass, Kise watches Midorima: ears red, but the rest of him poised and as arrogant-looking as ever. Who was it, Kise wonders, drawing the tip of his finger through the condensation on his glass. It'd have to be a friend, someone Midorima knew well, unlikely to be a girl. But who? If Kise was one to keep circling back to old friends, Midorima was even worse—Kise has never heard of Midorima making any outside of Teikou's or Shuutoku's basketball teams. In the end, Kise blurts out, "It wasn't Akashicchi, was it?" 

Midorima picks up a pair of chopsticks and stabs at a cold shishito pepper on a plate in front of Kise's face so viciously that Kise whips his head back, away from Midorima's reach. "Seriously, go die," he fumes, and gestures for the bill. 

 

-

 

In their last year of college, Akashi visits Tokyo and stays the night with Midorima, even though he doesn't have to. Ostensibly, he's there on behalf of his father, meeting with someone described in one breath as an old family friend and in another as an important business connection, but that too is an excuse. Without basketball, there hasn't been very many excuses to go, and outside of Aomine and Kagami—if one stretches the term—who had flung themselves abroad, Akashi is the only former miracle to escape the pull of Tokyo's orbit. Once upon a time, he'd been their captain and held them tight in his palm, but like so many things after middle school, the idea that he had any control over their trajectories turned out to be a fiction they all participated in. 

Midorima, unsurprisingly, lives in a roomy one-bedroom apartment kept spotless by a cleaning service neither of them comment on. "I imagine you're not here to sightsee," he says dryly when he opens the door, and Akashi smiles. 

"Old friends are always a sight to see," he tells Midorima, who snorts and takes Akashi's bags from him, moving them only a short distance to the side of his couch. 

"You realize I don't have a spare bedroom. You'll have to sleep on the couch or a futon."

"In your bedroom on the floor?" Akashi raises an eyebrow. "I didn't think we had that kind of relationship."

"You're the one who said we were old friends."

"You know what, Midorima, I don't believe I have ever been to your house," Akashi muses. 

"My family wasn't important enough for you," Midorima says simply, and they leave it at that.

Dinner with the family acquaintance means that Akashi doesn't get back to Midorima's apartment until quite late, very tired and slightly drunk on expensive sake. Midorima is still up, a medical reference book and a pile of scribbled notes laid out on the dining table, and when Akashi walks in, he immediately busies himself with making tea. Akashi considers his options—table or couch?—but the choice is made for him when Midorima gestures at the pillow and blankets already piled on the couch. "I made your bed," he says. "I didn't think you'd mind."

"No futon on your bedroom floor after all?" Akashi jokes as he takes a seat at the table. Midorima throws him a look, but otherwise doesn't reply. "I hope you haven't inconvenienced yourself, Midorima. It's Saturday night, after all. I imagine you had plans."

"I wasn't inconvenienced," Midorima says. 

"I know." Akashi opens his hands on the table surface, like he's spreading a very small deck of cards. "You wouldn't have told me yes if you were."

"I would have," Midorima snaps. "I rarely get to see you. We're still friends, Akashi."

Standing in his kitchen, arms crossed as he waits for the tea to steep, Midorima is all shadow and angles. Akashi can, from memory, sketch out what he thinks is Midorima's expression: eyebrows pinched, unexpectedly long eyelashes, a nose and chin rather too sharp to be truly good-looking, mouth a pencil-sketched line as he frowns. Akashi had, perhaps uncharacteristically, always looked his age—it was his bearing that made others see him as more mature, and without that he would have ended up rather like Kuroko, easily passed over in a crowd of people his own age. Midorima, on the other hand, had been a severe-looking middle schooler, and was only marginally better in high school, mostly due to Takao's presence. Now, in college, he had grown into his air of unapproachability, but Akashi expects that Midorima still has a few more years to go before it truly suits him. Ten years later, maybe, in a white coat towering over a patient on the operating table. Akashi imagines it now: himself in a crisp, nondescript gown, chest cut open to let Midorima's hands inside, Midorima's neat fingers handling his heart with arrogant ease. Pleased, he lets his gaze wander and eventually settles on a picture framed on a low bookshelf: blobs of orange uniforms, someone who looks like Midorima in the center being barrelled over by an overenthusiastic weight. 

"Speaking of friends, how's Takao?"

Midorima freezes. To anyone else, it would be a slight movement, just a pause as he reaches for the teapot and cups to bring them out of the kitchen, but Akashi seizes on it, fascinated. "Fine," Midorima says shortly. 

"Are you still joined at the hip?" 

"First of all, we weren't Kagami and Kuroko, and second of all, no. We don't have much time to see each other lately. We're both busy."

Akashi meditates on that for a moment, then says, "I always thought you did quite well for yourself, with him at Shuutoku. In fact I'm rather surprised that the two of you aren't living together. I suppose the same could be said for Kuroko and Kagami, but that I do suspect to be temporary. What happened in your case?"

"Nothing happened. We went to different colleges." That pause again, Midorima not quite meeting Akashi's eyes as he pours tea into Akashi's cup. "It was a partnership for a particular stage in our lives. We grew out of it," he finishes. 

Akashi blinks. "Ah," he says. Midorima's tone is light, which in and of itself is a flag, and Akashi, frowning, summons up an image of Takao: obnoxious laughter as he wove his way through a crowd, easily ingratiating himself to a group of strangers, the close way he'd watch Midorima like an ancient mariner with the stars, navigating deftly on the slightest change. Akashi weighs his options, each word another piece on the board waiting to open the right path to connect him to Midorima. "Was that something Takao said? That's surprising. I thought he was more astute at reading you."

"He didn't _say_ anything. It's the truth, though. We were teammates, nothing more." Midorima flashes a tight smile in Akashi's direction. "You know as well as I do that what is perfect on the basketball court may be far from perfect when one stops playing."

"Really, do I?" Akashi narrows his eyes. "If you mean our time at Teikou, I think it's an open question whether we were the perfect team on the basketball court and what perfection would mean in the basketball context. In fact, didn't we spend quite a bit of high school hashing that out with Kuroko? The result for him and you both, as I recall, seemed to prove rather the opposite, or at least you thought so at the time."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Midorima grumbles. "It's late and philosophizing with you about basketball puts me in mind of middle school, which isn't a good look for either of us." 

It was, Akashi thinks, not a bad look either, those early mornings spent leaning against the walls of an empty gym, uninterrupted sunlight and laminated wood, two children maneuvering through small and monumental pressures both: which dribbling drill to try next, what would be on the next classical Japanese test, and towards the end, whether Kuroko would be lost to them forever. But that wasn't an argument worth pursuing, and Akashi sidesteps it for another. 

"In either case," Akashi says, "if God disposes as you claim he does, then he would not dispose lightly. There would be no reason for him to waste something that was perfect, whether on or off the basketball court. So it must mean that there was less than you believed you saw in your relationship with Takao." He pauses, considering. The middle school him would have stopped there, but now, he closes his eyes and sees faintly out of the corner of his eye a flash of light blue, bright red. "Or, in the alternative," he adds, "that you will return to it." 

Midorima sighs, exasperated. He puts his teacup down on the table, the sound like a click of the tongue. "You know I hate that habit you have of pretending to know everything." 

"It's not a habit," Akashi says, wrapping his fingers around his own teacup. "It's an organizing principle. Every person uses a heuristic device to make sense of the world. This happens to be mine." Akashi leans into his elbows on the table, gazing back at Midorima, who has stubbornly wiped his face clean of any expression. "When I say I am absolute, I don't mean that my whims will always be obeyed. I mean that I put myself in the shoes of an ultimate being, see things as he intends them to be, and put those conclusions into effect." 

Midorima twists his mouth into a smile, thin and without an ounce of humor. "If that was true," he says, "one would have thought that you could have predicted Kuroko never quite forgiving you for what you did to Ogiwara. Which is presumably why you're staying with me and not with him."

It was meant to hurt, but recognizing it doesn't lessen the sting. Knowing he shouldn't respond, Akashi hears himself seconds later, snapping, "At least Tetsuya and I are still friends. Which appears to be more than you can say about yourself and Takao, Shintarou."

There's a deafening silence that follows. Despairing, Akashi keeps his mouth closed—anything he says now will only make the slip in his control more obvious. After a minute, Midorima takes a deep breath and lets it out, staring straight at Akashi's left eye. "Now _that_ , Seijuurou," he grumbles, "is actually a bad habit."

Akashi's left eye twitches, and he brings two fingers to it, tapping the eyelid. He'll apologize later for pushing at Midorima's sore spot and ignoring the warning signs. Emperor's Eye or not, he's always had an atavistic urge to put his hands through the weakest seams that hold a person together. Since high school, he's gotten better at not ripping too hard. But old habits die, if not hard, then at least gracelessly, he muses to himself with a sigh. It always was Midorima and Kuroko who could reduce him to his most childish and primal, because he was so sure each time that they of all people would understand him. _Success does not go to the person who cares the most_ , Akashi's father used to say. Certainly, Akashi thinks as he watches Midorima put the kettle on for more hot water, caring more has never helped either of them. 

 

-

 

A year after Kuroko graduates from college, Kagami manages to wrap things up in America and returns to Japan, and they finally move in together. Himuro, who has relocated to Tokyo to play for a B.League team, and Ogiwara, who's done very well for himself as a manager at a sports goods distributor headquartered in the city, help the two of them move in, carting boxes and Ikea pieces up and down stairs. When it's over, Kagami lies down on the floor of their new living room, spread-eagled like a large dog looking for relief from the heat, and asks Kuroko, "Do you want to have a housewarming party?" 

"Not particularly," Kuroko says from where he's arranging books on their bookshelf.

"You can invite all your friends, you know. The generation of miracles or whatever." 

"I'm really only friends with Aomine-kun," Kuroko jokes, flashing Kagami a cheeky smile.

Kagami groans. "Don't let Kise hear you say that."

"Maybe Akashi-kun as well," Kuroko continues, just to hear Kagami complain, y _ou have the worst taste in friends._

They have a party anyway. Akashi, away on a business trip with his father, sends his condolences and a tasteful ceramics set as a housewarming gift, but Aomine and the others come, and some of the old Seirin team as well—Kawahara, Riko, Hyuuga, Izuki. Kagami doesn't invite his new B.League teammates ("Very impolite," Kuroko warns him, but Kagami waves him off, saying, "It'll be awkward with Tatsuya and that idiot Aomine there"), Kuroko does invite a small handful of his college friends and colleagues, they both invite Himuro and Ogiwara, and the resulting party is bigger than either of them expect. "It's good, since it's more like what you'd have in America," Kagami assures Kuroko as he fills up a sink with ice for the beer, and laughs when Kuroko gives him a doubtful look. "Trust me, it'll be fun. A house party for a housewarming," he explains in English, which has Kuroko reaching for his phone to text Izuki.

With Kuroko's college and work set present, everyone is well-behaved for the first hour, managing to make conversation about things other than basketball while eating tiny sandwiches and pizza. Two hours into it, though, only the basketball players are left. Aomine, having marinated in his own boredom for at least an hour, is the first to suggest a pickup game. "There's a court nearby somewhere, right?" he whines, elbow pressing heavily down on Kuroko's shoulder. "Tetsu wouldn't have picked a place that wasn't close to at least one." 

"Ten minute walk away," Kuroko admits, trying to shrug Aomine off. "That's surprisingly observant of you, Aomine-kun."

"When it comes to basketball, at least, you're an open book." Aomine grins, digging his elbow in deeper. "What do you say?"

From across the room, Kagami frowns, and Kuroko smiles back at him, pinching Aomine on the wrist to make him stop. "I'll stay here and clean up. I'm sure Kagami-kun will beat you for me."

"Of course _he's_ coming," Aomine snorts. "But who else?" 

Hyuuga and Riko excuse themselves, waking a grumpy Nigou from where he's been sleeping at Kuroko's feet. Momoi offers to stay behind to help Kuroko dry the dishes, which causes Kise to have a minor crisis of faith between his natural instinct to play Aomine and his competitive need to be the one closest to Kuroko at any given time, but in the end he and the others all follow Aomine out, complaining loudly and insincerely about inappropriate footwear and full stomachs. "Kuroko," Kagami calls out one last time from the door, and Kuroko passes him a second basketball over everyone's head, just for old time's sake.

"You know, I thought that Kagamin would be the one to play basketball indoors," Momoi jokes, handing Kuroko a stack of dirty plates. "But I guess I forgot how you're both basketball idiots."

"We did always bring out the worst in each other," Kuroko says, mock-gravely, as he fishes out some hand towels from a drawer.

"Or the best," she muses, and he looks up. She's glancing out the window, through which, he guesses, she can see Aomine. 

They chat as they wash and dry—about Kuroko's latest translation project, the most recent write-up on Kagami in Monthly Basketball, Momoi's last boyfriend (a photographer that Kise had introduced her to and Aomine had hated), Momoi's current boyfriend (an editor that Kuroko introduced her to and Aomine, predictably, hates). At some point Kuroko suspects he'll have to broach the obvious topic with Aomine; with Momoi, at least, Kuroko is quite sure it's a known quantity just waiting for the opportunity. Right now, though, Momoi's complaints are surface-deep, the kind she's voiced before about all her exes: If only he were taller, if only their schedules corresponded more, if only it were easier to tell whether he _liked_ her. "He likes you," Kuroko assures her, passing her the last of the forks. "I can tell. He's just not the most demonstrative."

"I should have known better than to date someone _you_ recommend," Momoi complains. "Of course all your friends would be inscrutable like a mystery book."

Kuroko taps her on the head with a rolled-up towel. "Not all of them. I'm friends with Aomine-kun after all." 

"True. And Kagamin."

Kawahara, Izuki, Ogiwara, and Midorima come back first from the pick-up game, slightly sweaty, with little bags of sports drinks from the convenience store. "You know how they are," Izuki tells Kuroko. "Kagami and Aomine got a little hot-headed, and with Kise and Himuro there," he says, trailing off. Midorima rolls his eyes, but lets it go without comment and heads to the balcony to cool off, a Pocari in hand. Kawahara and Izuki bow out shortly afterwards, telling Kuroko to say goodbye to Kagami for them.

"I'm glad with this _apart_ ment, you're no longer living _apart_ ," Izuki says with a broad grin. "For a little bit, you worried your senpais. But Kagami came back after all."

Kuroko nods. "I was never worried, but thank you for your concern."

Izuki screws up his face, then laughs as he cuffs Kuroko gently on the back of the head, Hyuuga-like. "That's just like you," he says, sliding into his shoes. "I'm also glad that you never change."

With Ogiwara talking to Momoi, Kuroko turns towards Midorima, silhouetted against the distant city lights, rail-thin and very still. The balcony door snicking closed behind Kuroko is the only sound he needs to announce himself. Midorima half-turns, but keeps his eyes trained on the cityscape when he says, "You have a nice apartment. I don't know if I told you that earlier." 

"Thank you. It's good of Midorima-kun to say so, since I know your apartment is nicer."

"You've never visited."

"Akashi-kun sent pictures from the last time he was there."

Midorima grunts."The two of you still talk?"

"Occasionally. He's busy, but tries to make time for friends. He did warn me that if I ever wanted to see you again, I should make an appointment. Should we schedule a routine check-up for six months from now?" 

Midorima makes an impatient gesture with his fingers, a little circle with the wrist saying, _get on with it._ "Is there something you want to say?"

"Not particularly." Kuroko leans his weight on the railing, soaking in the cold metallic tang of it against his forearms. "I notice you didn't bring Takao-kun."

"Now _that's_ the Akashi in you coming out," Midorima snarls. "What did he tell you?"

"It's not," Kuroko protests. It wasn't Akashi at all, that was the truth—because Akashi's plan had been for Kuroko to invite Takao to the party and to report back on what happens, which had been Akashi's very specific brand of concern and curiosity. Kuroko has always known his limitations, and that much meddling had seemed way beyond his manipulative abilities, no matter how much the others insisted he was Akashi's protege. "Really, I'm just wondering."

A noise from inside the apartment draws their attention. The rest of the basketball party has returned, Kagami in the lead and Aomine bringing in the rear. Murasakibara has, unsurprisingly, acquired a box of popsicles and is guarding them against Kise's beseeching. Himuro and Kagami make their way into the kitchen side by side, both idly palming a basketball with identical movements, more like brothers in this moment than Kuroko has ever seen them. In the background, Aomine is scowling at Ogiwara and Momoi, who are still chatting on the couch. 

"You know," Midorima says, "for other people, it's normal to lose touch with your high school friends. You don't have to drag them around with you the rest of your life."

"I believe you, Midorima-kun." But he makes a small, fanning gesture with one hand at the glass of the sliding doors anyway, as if to say, _we aren't other people._ Kuroko had dragged Ogiwara with him in spirit for so many years that Ogiwara's face was, for a while, less familiar than his voice over the phone. And Aomine, Akashi likes to say when he's in a bad mood, is a head on a pike that Kuroko keeps around to threaten Kagami with, which is usually the point in the conversation where Kuroko hangs up and Akashi sends an opaque text apologizing for his short temper.

Midorima kicks the railing with his heel. The vibrations snake their way through Kuroko, racing all the way to his forehead. "What did it feel like back then in middle school?" Midorima asks. They pause, Kuroko mulling over exactly what Midorima is asking, and Midorima clears his throat. "When Aomine stopped receiving your passes, I mean." 

"What I had with Aomine-kun then, it isn't comparable." A silence, and Kuroko hastens to add, "I meant, it wasn't as meaningful. That time in Teikou, it wasn't about us or our friendship necessarily. It was a more generalized loss."

Midorima nods. "I'm not offended."

"But I didn't realize that until I met Kagami-kun. It took awhile, both times, to realize that I had been wrong about Aomine-kun and wrong about Kagami-kun in the beginning too." 

"When Kagami left for America—" Midorima begins, but even after a full minute of waiting, he doesn't finish. 

"It wasn't a surprise. I always knew he was going."

"But he came back."

"With Kagami-kun, it didn't feel like something I was meant to do, until it was. I knew he felt the same. Because of that, I always knew he would come back too. So it wasn't like Aomine-kun or Teikou at all." Kuroko picks through his next words, as if his own feelings are a book he is translating, a story written by someone else in a different language, one that can't be spoken. "Even the separation seemed like a kind of destiny."

"Because in the end it was only temporary."

"Yes."

Through the balcony door, they watch the party wind down. Aomine, sprawled out on the couch, his long legs leaving only room for Momoi to sit, has his head turned to bark at Kagami, who looks to be throwing open cupboards in the kitchen. There's an easy familiarity that Kuroko can trace between them, the way married couples can talk with only glances, or the way he imagines men who fought together must fall into line at a fingersnap. Their first days back, Aomine had found himself constantly at Kagami's apartment for no reason, glaring at Kuroko as if he were the interloper, and Kagami was constantly finishing Aomine's sentences for him even though they were both speaking Japanese now and there was no need for a translator. He'd never have that with Kagami, or at least it'd never be that specific relationship, of that specific intensity, so strong because it had been practiced over and over like a shooting pose or a hand grip, and it had taken both of them time to get that, to adjust. But that too had been familiar, or at least no greater a challenge than what they'd surmounted before. Kuroko still remembers the weight of the ring in his palm as high-school Kagami said, _a future with you_. That same weight in his words when he told Kagami later, right before college, _do what you have to do. I'll wait for you._

"Anyway, these days I think Aomine-kun is more Kagami-kun's friend than mine," Kuroko admits.

"They're both too stupid to be friends with," Midorima replies absently. "You can only keep them like pets, the way you and Momoi do," which makes Kuroko laugh so hard he almost bangs his head on the balcony door trying to get back inside.

 

-

 

Midorima doesn't find out that Takao is engaged until he receives the wedding invitation in the mail. He gives it a few days on his dining room table, and it pays off, sort of—Takao calls him a week later. "Why didn't you let me know you got it?" he asks, laughing. "Were you planning on just sending your response back without getting any of the details?"

"I believe that's usually how invites work, yes," Midorima says very carefully, because he knows it will make Takao howl in laughter, _Shin-chan, you haven't changed_.

The ceremony will be simple, Takao tells him. Does Shin-chan know the bride? No, Midorima tells him, he's only heard the rumors. Well, they met at work. She was, briefly, even Takao's superior. As neither family nor special friend, Midorima isn't expected to be at the ceremony itself, but would he come to the reception? No need to give a speech, Takao says blithely, and Midorima curls his fingers tight around the edge of a table. "It's just that I can't invite everyone I went to high school with, but I wanted someone to represent. You were always such a hit with my parents."

Just like riding a bike, Midorima will never forget how easily Takao can decimate him, reduce him to a high-schooler, nervous and overwhelmed. Like all the times before, he chants to himself, _it is my feelings that are wrong._ His heart is an island he's placed at sea to protect others, even himself, from it. He'd spent so long cultivating that careful distance, but always, just a few words from Takao and he's built a bridge back across, head throbbing, palms sweating, wanting too much. 

"I'd be honored," he tells Takao. 

The wedding is in Nagano, where the bride's family is from, and the reception and after-party are there as well. So a month before the wedding, Takao calls the past members of the Shuutoku team together to celebrate in Tokyo, which captures all of them in a two-hour train ride sweep. They meet at an izakaya, where Kimura has set up a collection fund to pay for Takao's drinks. "I thought I was doing you a favor," Takao jokes, pretending to pout, "that this way you wouldn't have to spend any money on me. But now look at this."

"Is this how little you think of your senpais?" the older Miyaji grunts, throwing a piece of grilled meat at Takao's face, and a minor food fight ensues, Takao wailing at Midorima to come to his assistance and Yuuya slipping his brother extra pieces of cucumber for ammunition. It's stopped by Ootsubo, who upon returning from the bathroom needs only to glare at them all as if to say, _don't play with your food,_ for everyone to meekly resume eating like adults.

"Just like the old days," Takao whispers, slinging his arm around Midorima's shoulders. "I miss this. Why did we all stop being friends?" 

Midorima tries to breathe. His throat feels swollen and yet two sizes too small. It occurs to him that once upon a time, it was easy to talk to Takao. It didn't feel like a sickness or a crushing reminder of his personal failings. Once upon a time, he thinks, he must have cared less. "We were never friends," he manages, because _I didn't think of you as a friend_ is too close to the truth. 

"You're right, Shin-chan," Takao says, laughing. "I meant, why did we stop hanging out? Because we stopped being on the high-school basketball team, I guess. When was the last time we all got together like this?"

"When Ootsubo-senpai had his first baby, I think."

"Wow, really?" Takao squints at his beer. "Seems longer ago than that." 

Midorima can, if asked, calculate the exact number of months, weeks, and days since the last time he saw Takao. Times like this, he wishes he was still in middle school, still in Akashi's back pocket, or had someone else who could read him inside and out, someone he could retreat from this party to, who would dig out all the shameful and pointless sludge he'd let collect in his mind, hidden from public view. But that was part of growing up. He's learned that most people didn't carry around the friends they made in middle and high school, that it was "too intense" and "naive" to expect others to function like an extension of his own body just because he wanted them to, that when normal people said "teamwork" they didn't mean what he'd had, which someone Midorima had briefly attempted to date had described as "codependent mind games." He hasn't quite learned how to be normal, but he's learned at least to recognize what isn't. It wouldn't be normal to tell Takao that the last time he'd seen him, it was from across an intersection while walking to his metro station. Takao had been holding a bottle of water in one hand and talking animatedly into a cell phone, business hair carefully pomaded, laughing so hard that the other person on the line must have been telling a joke, and Midorima had thought, it'd been years and he could still read Takao's happiness like a neon sign in the dark, a bright light that used to feel like a fever and now feels like a wound. It wouldn't be normal to tell Takao that now he realizes Takao must have been talking to his fiancee. 

"Soon it'll be your baby," Midorima says instead.

Takao punches him in the shoulder. "Not too soon, I hope. Anyway it should be _your_ engagement next."

When he had just started college, sitting in a yakiniku shop with a dramatically despondent Kise, Midorima had admitted to being awkward with his emotions. He'd hoped it would be something he'd grow out of, with experience and age. But like everyone else he'd played basketball with in middle school, he hasn't changed. On any given day, Kise is still blowing up Kuroko's phone, Aomine is still trying to figure out how to jump higher than Kagami, Murasakibara still makes conversation about non-snack-item topics in one-syllable bursts, and Akashi still vacillates between acting like an example sentence from an etiquette book and acting like a direct descendant of Amaterasu. Midorima's fulfilled the promise of his early days—top of his university class, a successful surgeon at a large hospital, the first trickling of _omiai_ offers from his department head—but the one time Kise had accidentally come across Midorima with a date, he'd still texted him afterwards, _you come on too strong, like a twelve when you need to be at a seven._ It's just that when they were both freshmen in high school, it had worked with Takao, and it had remained a wrong lesson that Midorima never unlearned.

 _I've looked and looked, and there's no one else in the world who will know me like you do. I confuse basketball compatibility with intimacy, and it is your fault. How can I get engaged, when I couldn't even keep you?_ These are all confessions, Midorima knows, that he can't make Takao accept. 

"We'll see," Midorima says, and applies himself to his beer to keep himself from saying anything else. 

Afterwards, of course, Takao herds them towards a streetball court, the one closest to Kuroko and Kagami's apartment, Midorima realizes with slight surprise. They play three-on-three, out of practice and sloppy, and Midorima ruins his soft leather loafers going head-to-head with Takao. One of Ootsubo's passes nearly jams Midorima's middle finger, and Yuuya taunts them from across the court, "Careful, senpai! Those fingers are a national treasure, you know!"

"The hospital probably has them insured," Takao snickers and, when Midorima throws a pass so close that it almost brushes Takao's bangs, yells back, "Watch it! This face is a national treasure too!"

"In your dreams," Miyaji mutters, cuffing Takao on the back of the head.

Takao's team loses the first game. Miyaji makes him fetch them all drinks from a nearby vending machine as a punishment, and as they squat on the asphalt, shirt buttons loosened and panting, Takao begs them for one more game, "for me, as my wedding gift."

"I thought you said you didn't need a wedding gift from us," Kimura teases.

"I said I wouldn't take money from you," Takao whines. "This is free."

They draw lots. This morning, Oha-Asa said that Cancer was in first place today, that the lucky item was a love song, that the lucky color was black. So, naturally, Midorima is on Takao's team. It's been years since they last played together, because even when they see each other now, never alone but with other Shuutoku or Teikou acquaintances in neutral bars and restaurants for adult occasions, reunions and engagements and newborns, they rarely, if ever, actually play basketball. But Takao still passes to him like it's second nature, and a few minutes into the game Midorima still sinks a long three-pointer from more than halfway across the court. It goes in, all net, no rim, like a bird taking off in reverse. Takao, whooping, rushes back to Midorima's side for a high-five, forgetting that there are no time-outs, not seeing that Ootsubo has gotten the rebound and is going in for the dunk. Too late for the steal, they have to depend on Yuuya, who races to Ootsubo's side, arms outstretched, tripping Kimura by accident in the process. "I'm fine," Kimura calls out, brushing at the fabric of his now-scuffed pants, "just don't have enough skid on these shoes," but Ootsubo and Miyaji have to see for themselves, and Yuuya is left awkwardly dribbling the ball, waiting for his senpai to finish fretting. 

Takao puts his hands on his knees, drawing in deep, slow breaths. The lights of the streetball court make his eyes shine, cat-like, when he glances over at Midorima. "Do you remember that last one-on-one we played after the graduation ceremony?" Midorima shakes his head. "Too bad. You were so good, you know. That last time, when I saw you put a basket in, I told myself I would remember it for this moment, getting married and seeing you again. I don't know if I ever told you, but I used to think I used up all the luck I was ever going to have in my life, playing basketball with you. Like, _ah, I was put on this earth to meet Shin-chan_." 

"And now?" Midorima hears himself asking, as if from somewhere very far away. 

"Now—" Takao begins, but is interrupted by Miyaji, who calls from under the basket, "Hey you fuckers, you gonna play or you just gonna stand there and flirt?"

"Flirt," Takao shouts back immediately, but slaps Midorima on the back and takes off after Miyaji anyway. 

Play resumes, Ootsubo with the ball. He makes the dunk, and Yuuya and Kimura fumble for the rebound, leaving a perfect opening for Takao, who darts in, steals, and passes to Midorima. For a few precious seconds, as the ball moves towards him, both his hands already positioned over his chest to receive it, Midorima stares at Takao. Sweaty, grinning, with his hair brushed back from his face, he looks like he is fifteen again, and the pain of seeing him is so intense it is almost transcendental. _I used to think I used up all my luck,_ Midorima hears, and adds the words Takao didn't say, _'until I met her_.' He raises his hands high over his head and releases the ball for a three-pointer. He doesn't watch it fall. Instead, reflexively, he starts walking towards the other hoop, and there in front of him, already ready for the counterattack, is Takao. Who still believes, as Midorima does, that the ball will go in, descending along the path Midorima had sketched out in his mind. Who still believes, as Midorima does, that that path is right, that there is no other option, that this was meant to be. Who else, Midorima thinks, tasting despair, will believe like this and treat this lofty, outrageous absolute as if it were as natural as breathing? When it is Midorima's turn, when it is his wedding and he sees Takao's face in the crowd, what story will he tell?

_Once upon a time, I found a miracle. It was perfect, made in my shape. I thought I would hold it forever, but it was only for a little while. Still, for a little while, it was completely mine._

Impossible, Midorima thinks, as he reaches out his hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to e., the best little green cursor, for vanquishing my unnecessary commas, wrangling tenses, and holding my hand when I threatened to delete the whole thing, just so she could yell at me to finish some other fic instead.
> 
> If you want to read more self-indulgent rambling about this fic, you can go [here](http://retrocontinuity.tumblr.com/post/147656227618/give-and-go-implied-midorima-takao-five).


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